Newton's Law
by Fayola
Summary: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. It is never nice, it is never neat, and it always hurts like the Pit.
1. 01 The Morning After: Prowl

Title: Newton's Law  
Rating: eventually NC-17 (yes, you should probably stop reading this right now)  
Warnings: angst, drama, hurt feelings, and mech-seckz  
Pairings: Duh. My OTP. PROWL AND JAZZ FOREVAH!  
Summary: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. It is never nice, it is never neat, and it always hurts like the Pit.

Notes: I've actually had this written for... woah, a REALLY long time. Started it about half way through Jazzerella, and that feels like a friggin CENTURY ago. I even sent it to my beta for polishing. (...Or so my increasingly rusty memory tells me. Correct me if I'm wrong.) But I completely forgot about it, and thus it has not been posted. Good thing I felt my flash drive merited a good cleaning. Or not so good. You tell me.

* * *

Prowl woke to his internal alarm with his chassis aching, fuel tanks churning, and CPU screaming at him to go back into recharge. It was not a familiar feeling, but one he'd experienced enough times before to know what it meant, even if he could not recall just how he had done so this time: he'd gotten over-energized last night.

Rather badly, if the enormous processor-ache was anything to go by.

Prowl groaned, moving to roll onto his side, seriously contemplating just not getting up at all. Perhaps he wouldn't even calling in sick – he would just not show up at Headquarters that orn. He always worked hard, sacrificing much of his personal time to keep up with the work that it took to be Second in Command. He hadn't had so much as a single day of vacation in vorns. Now was as good a time as any to use one of those personal days Optimus was pressing him to take.

This thought process was rudely interrupted, however, when he finally did manage to wriggle his sensory panel from beneath him and flop onto his side, for as he did so, he reached out to grasp one of the gel-filled pillows he always kept aplenty on his berth but met instead the warm frame of another.

Prowl powered up his optics so fast they shorted, and he had to wait another panic-filled breem before they rebooted themselves. What he saw when they finally came on-line, however, was nearly enough to make them fritz again.

There, laying just an arm's length away, back turned to him, was Jazz.

Panic, already buzzing through his circuits, grew into

full blown terror. He was in berth with Jazz! _Jazz!_ The mech he'd spent the last eight deca-cycles butting helms with, the mech he'd been trying to convince Optimus was just not good enough to be Third in Command, despite having run more successful operations than any other, whether they be under Prime's orders or not, the mech who was a cold hard killer, the mech who slit the throats of more 'Cons than -- _Primus he's going to slit my throat!_

Scrambling backwards off the berth as fast as he could (quietly, as to not wake the still-recharging Jazz and thus inflict his own doom upon himself), Prowl forced himself to calm down. He was fine, he was still functioning, he was –

He paused, looking around. Not in his apartment? Just how over-energized had he gotten last night?

Apparently _very_ over-energized, if he'd somehow managed to stumble his way into Jazz's home, into Jazz's _berth_, and have absolutely no recollection of either.

Panic setting in anew, Prowl made a beeline for the door. It swished open at his approach – too loudly for his liking – and closed again once he had hurried through to the other side. That barrier, small and unimposing though it was, was enough to settle the tactician's frazzled nerves. Somehow feeling much safer with the thin layer of steel between himself and his least favorite, rather temperamental (at least when it came to dealing with Prowl) mech, he took a moment to simply stand there, staring at the closed door, wondering just where the frag he had gone wrong.

Accessing his core memory, he searched for memory clips of the previous night… and came up disturbingly blank.

Nothing. There was a fuzzy image of the meeting he had attended a joor before his shift ended, then nothing.

He was nearly sent into another frenzy, but logic – oh, sweet, cool, wonderful logic – took over. This was normal. Well, not normal for him, but a common enough occurrence to the general population that he should not worry (too much).

He was suffering from energon poisoning, something that happened when one consumed too much high-grade, or even enough raw mid-grade. It degraded files like recent memories or things that were stored as such, and could even impair motor skills during recovery. As it was the morning after, Prowl was obviously recovering, and as he could barely stand without swaying, his motor function was obviously impaired. Combined with his loss of memory – and, apparently, temporary loss of good judgment – logic dictated this was nothing more than a bad case of energon poisoning.

Prowl shuttered his optics, blocking out the visual of Jazz's apartment. A _very_ bad case.

Opening his optics once more, he turned from the door leading to Jazz's room, intent on finding the one that lead to the street outside. It wasn't hard to miss – military-issued living quarters were woefully small – sitting just on the other side of the sitting room, which came equipped with an over-sized couch, a small table, and a few odd chairs, one of them overturned. He assumed the door to his right led to a small kitchen of sorts – nothing much, just an energon dispenser, a few cabinets for storage, and a heating apparatus to warm energon on cold days.

All in all, the apartment was very similar to Prowl's own. The only major difference was the… well, Prowl didn't know what to call it other than a "homey" feel. Jazz's living space actually looked _lived_ in, knickknacks and holo-images lining the shelves on the walls, trinkets ranging from such things as some type of organic plant to a shard of what looked like the Towers to an impressive collection of wicked looking blades. (Prowl tried not to linger too long on these, one hand unconsciously coming up to rub nervously at the cables and tubing in his neck.)

In comparison, Prowl's quarters were very Spartan, nothing personal betraying his existence, save one very old holo-image of he and his creators, an image captured while he was still a sparkling, just before both their deactivations, but even that was stored away in the back of a drawer instead of openly displayed as Jazz's were. But that was just the way Prowl was, and it suited him fine, thank you very much.

Having lingered too long for his comfort, Prowl headed for the exit, only to be stopped once more by his ever-loathsome sense of morality. The thought drifted across his CPU that, despite the contempt he felt for the Special Ops mech, he should apologize to Jazz.

Another look at the array of blades hanging on the walls, though, convinced him that waking the saboteur was a potentially lethal idea.

_A note will suffice,_ his CPU supplied helpfully.

Snarling to himself, Prowl marched over to the small table in the center of the room, snatching up one of the data-pads that lay scattered across it. Drawing up a blank file, he paused.

Just what was he supposed to write? "Sorry I interfaced with you, I was too over-energized to know what I was doing"?

That thought brought up another. Jazz kept it no secret that he disliked Prowl just as much if not more than Prowl hated him. He must have been rather over-energized himself if he'd allowed himself to be put in a compromising position such as interfacing. Perhaps Jazz did not remember anything either.

Prowl clung to that small hope. But still, that persistent sense of guilt nagged at him. He agonized over what to do for a good breem, finally scribbling out three words and throwing the pad down with a growl.

And without further ado, he turned on his heel and left Jazz's apartment, the still-active data-pad glowing dimly, short message on the display screen waiting for Jazz to wake and read it.

_I'm so sorry._


	2. 02 The Night Before: Jazz

Notes: Wow. I was just kinda dipping my toes in with that first chapter, testing the water before diving in. I don't know WHAT I was expecting when I posted it, but it certainly wasn't the flurry of reviews and favorites that nearly broke my email. I huggle you all!

Okay, now to waylay some confusion. If you didn't read the chapter title, this chapter does NOT take place The Morning After as the previous chappie did, but on The Night Before. I'll be bouncing back and forth. Should be fun, no? 8D

OH, just one final note. Someone asked why Prowl and Jazz hate each other. The answer is they just do. I mean, why do YOU hate that one really obnoxious kid in your math class, the one with a loud mouth and the stupid opinions that are the exact opposite of yours? It's like Democrats and Republicans. Or mayonnaise and peanut butter. They just don't go together. Too different.

* * *

Jazz punched in his entrance code a little more viciously than was required, growling irritably to himself as he did so. He earned a few wary stares from passing pedestrians, but he didn't care. All he cared about was getting inside his apartment, refueling, and collapsing on his berth for a few joors before he had to return to Headquarters.

He shuddered at that last thought. Going to Headquarters meant seeing _Him_ again, a thought in and of itself unappealing, disgustingly so with how bad of a mood he was in now.

Jazz had had a Pit of an orn. It seemed every time he turned around, there He was, blocking his every efforts to simply do his job. The orn had started badly, what with Optimus ordering a rather suicidal recon mission. The plan had stunk of Him. Jazz had gone to confront Prime, demand to know what had short-circuited his motherboard, but He had been there, standing behind Optimus with that cool, emotionless stare that Jazz despised so greatly. Being the oh so helpful bot he was, He calmly pointed out that if he, Jazz, couldn't handle the mission, perhaps some bots of lesser rank would be willing to fill in where their Third in Command – the title was said with a small sneer – lacked the courage to perform.

The orn only went downhill from there. Though Jazz did not see Him again – save once, when he needed a signature, something He made Jazz wait half a joor to get – the near impossible mission hanging over his head made it impossible for Jazz to reclaim his usual cheery disposition. He spent the day growling and grumbling at Him under his breath, blaming Him for every little thing that went wrong. He couldn't find a data-pad he needed – His fault. The energon dispenser broke – probably because He touched it. He snapped his stylus in half – because thinking of Him made him clench his fists too tightly!

At long last, though, he was home, albeit _late_, because He had given him so much work to do. Jazz trudged through the front door, instantly feeling a proverbial weight lift from his shoulder struts. He was home now. No snooty, logical tacticians to bother him here.

"Music on," he ordered his automated system as he locked the door behind him. Picking up where it had been shut off that morning, it started playing in the middle of a loud, fast-paced song. It was aggressive enough to suit Jazz's mood, and was one of his usual favorites. He started bobbing his head in time to the beat as he shuffled his way to his little kitchen. The song followed.

He snagged an empty cube off the countertop, grimacing when he saw the crusted remains of his morning energon lingering in the bottom. He threw it into the small sink, resolving to wash it later (he simply was not in the mood for _chores_ right now), and went to one of the cupboards for a clean one. He found something better.

"Oh, sweet Primus," he moaned, pulling down one of the cubes full of high-grade and prying off the seal. "Thank you, Sideswipe, you forgetful little glitch, you."

He downed half the cube in one gulp, only half aware that it was not the usual over-powering taste of the Twins' usual brew. He did not linger on its level of potency long, however, as the effects of the strong stuff on his empty tanks and depleted systems was almost immediate. He felt the buzz course through his chassis, tingling in all the right places and energizing his tired systems. He downed the rest of the cube, then reached for another, opening it and taking a good healthy swig of that, too.

Not satisfied, he dug through a drawer. Where were those energon goodies, he just bought them yester – ah! He shoved one or two in his mouth, then snagged a handful to munch on in his room.

He left the kitchen, taking another swig of his high-grade as he went. He marched over to one of the many shelves lining his sitting room walls, the one that held a much-loved holo-photo.

"Hey, bro," he said to the holo-image. "Been a while. How ya holdin' up?"

The holo-image, of course, did not respond. It never did. But that did not deter Jazz from talking to his long-deactivated co-creation.

"Had a nasty orn m'self," the saboteur went on, munching on another goodie. "_He_ keeps on buttin' his olfactory sensor where it don't belong, as usual. Just don' know when to quit, that mech."

Backbeat simply smiled, arm wrapped around a much younger version of Jazz.

"I jus' don' know what t' do 'bout Him anymore," Jazz muttered sullenly. "'S'like, we're on the same side, ain't we? Why's He makin' it so hard to do my job?"

His brother had no answer for that. But then again, neither did Jazz. The visored mech sighed.

"Well, night, Beat." Smiling, he put an energon goodie next to his brother's holo-image. "You can have the last one. Primus knows I've had 'nough."

Nightly ritual over, Jazz turned away from the shelf and headed for his room, Backbeat's optics following as he went.

A new song had begun playing while Jazz was talking to his co-creation. Another one of his favorites – but then, didn't he love any and all music? He began humming along, shuffling his feet in time to the beat. Soon enough he was singing along with the words, all out dancing his way to his room and waiting berth. It was a bit uncoordinated, as the effects of the high-grade and goodies, having been given some time to stew, were really setting in.

Shouldering his way into his room – was the door being extra slow tonight or was that just the energy buzz getting to him? – he threw back the rest of his cube.

"_Wanna see you dance, wanna see you move,_" he crooned along with the music, resuming his dance. The music was reaching a crescendo. Jazz, feeling particularly energetic now that he'd had time to unwind, leapt into the air, twisting in a circle.

It was perhaps a bad idea, the dimly-lit room combined with the high-grade leaving him rather clumsy. He landed on the edge of his ped, throwing him off balance and to the floor. He landed hard on his aft, giggling to himself.

Well, at least no one was here to see him.

Then came a cool, emotionless voice, saying, "Very smooth, Jazz."


	3. 03 The Morning After: Prowl

Authoress's Notes: I am addicted to reviews like they were crack. Please. Feed my addiction. I may just be tempted to write more for this if you do! 8D

* * *

Prowl was quite glad he set his internal alarm to wake him up so early; no bot else was awake to see him slip quietly out of Jazz's apartment. The first sun, just barely peeking over the horizon, was his only witness, and it didn't ask any questions. He could only hope any neighbors who were on-line were not the type to stare out the window.

He transformed and hurried down the street, turning first left, then taking a right, then stopping at a third intersection when he realized he had no idea as to where he was. He hovered there for a moment, debating with himself. Should he just continue driving around until he found something he recognized, or would he really debase himself and ask someone for directions?

The latter option finally won out when a warning that he needed to refuel flashed across his HUD. Transforming once more, he stepped off the empty street and began walking down the sidewalk, looking for a shop that was open at this early joor. He found one not far down, a little café that sold gourmet energon goodies and treats. He pushed the swinging door open, activating a little electronic chime that announced his arrival as he did so.

"Be with you in a breem!" called out a voice from the back room.

Prowl, wanting very much to simply get directions and be on his way, waited as patiently as he could. He mentally bounced on the balls of his feet – not physically, of course, his self restraint was too strong for that, but it always seemed to help his nerves to envision himself doing the act – as he took a look over the display case of treats. Coolant pops, rust sticks, oil cakes, flat crisp energon treats, plump goodies – all were well displayed in a manner that would be rather appealing and tempting to one who actually cosseted themselves with such things. Prowl, as it were, was too strictly disciplined to indulge in things like sweets. He prayed the shop owner sold regular energon.

"Alright then!" said the same cheery voice that had called out a moment before. Prowl looked up to see it belonged to a rather cheery looking minibot with light blue paint and large yellow optics. He was carrying a large tray filled with more treats, which he set down on the glass countertop before turning to Prowl.

"What can I do you for?" he asked jovially.

Prowl opened his mouth, then paused. How best to go about this?

"I'm, uh," he said haltingly, "I'm afraid I've gotten a little… lost."

"New to the area?" the shop owner asked, thankfully glossing over the fact that it was a little early to in fact be getting lost.

"Yes," Prowl answered shortly. It was partially the truth.

"Don't worry, it happens to the best of us," the portly little minibot said with a wink. "Where you headed to?"

"Autobot Headquarters."

"Working?" He was given an incredulous look. "So close to the city's Foundation Day?"

"My position demands it," Prowl said succinctly, though he doubted even if he _weren't_ busy with his duties, he wouldn't participate in the usual festivities that came with the holiday. They were in the middle of a war. It would feel wrong to celebrate.

"A higher-up, eh?" the shop owner beamed. "You would know Jazz, then."

Prowl balked at the unexpected turn. "Pardon?"

"Jazz, nice bot," the minibot responded. "He lives just a few streets down. He's your Third in Command, or was promoted to such 'bout seven decacyles ago."

"Eight," Prowl immediately corrected.

"So you do know him!" The shop keeper's perpetual smile widened. "Int'resting mech, ain't he?"

"Yes, simply… riveting." Prowl forced himself not to sigh through his vents. "I'm sorry, but if I could just get directions…"

"Oh, sure, sure!" the minibot chuckled. "Sorry 'bout that. I'm sure you wanna be on your way. Now, all you gotta do is go 'bout ten streets up that way –" he pointed one stubby digit to his left "—then another six streets that way –" then straight ahead "—then cut across the alley to yer right. That takes you to the edge of the city. Can you find your way from there?"

"Yes, thank you," Prowl murmured. He was about to turn to leave when another warning flashed across his HUD. "You… you don't sell mid-grade, do you?"

"The sweetest around these parts!" the minibot confirmed merrily.

"Wonderful." Prowl grimaced internally.

"I'll go fill you up a cube," the minibot said over his shoulder, turning to head back into the back room. He returned not a breem later carrying Prowl's cube of overly-sweetened energon and a large box.

"Here you are," the shop owner said, setting both on the counter before him after first shifting the tray of treats to one side. He lifted the top off the box, revealing an array of various goodies and treats.

"For your mechs," he said with a wink. "I may be just a Neutral, but I sure do appreciate all you Autobots do!"

"Thank you, sir," Prowl said graciously. "What do I owe you for –"

"No, no, on the house, both of them!" the minibot said, replacing the box's lid.

"Sir, really, I can't accept," Prowl insisted, decorum revolting at the idea of a gift.

"Well, I'm not taking any of your credits," the shopkeeper said firmly, shaking his head. "You work too hard for them. I can't pretend to know how hard you have it, especially in times like these. This is the least I can do."

Prowl was speechless for a moment, moved that someone – even if that someone was a Neutral goodie maker whom he had never met before – was appreciative of all the hard work he put forth.

"Um… er, thank you," he said softly. "Thank you, I'll… I'll make sure they are appreciated."

"That's all I ask," the minibot said, bright smile returning. "See if you can't get Prime to eat one of the round oil-filled ones. Something tells me he could use one."

"I'll see to it personally," Prowl assured the shop owner, though not even his battle computer could conjecture what Optimus would say – Pit, what _any _bot would say – to him handing out goodies.

"Wonderful!" the blue bot exclaimed, clapping his hands together.

Prowl subspaced away the box of treats, then threw back half the cube of mid-grade in one gulp. (Much too sweet, as he expected.)

"Good, no?" the minibot inquired eagerly.

"Very," Prowl lied, not finding the spark to tell the truth to the kind mech. He finished the rest of the cube, then subspaced it away as well. "I must be off now."

"Nice meeting you!" the shop owner said.

"And you," agreed Prowl, and he turned to go. He was almost out the door, electronic chime sounding again, when the shop keeper said something more.

"Say hi to Jazz for me!"

Prowl very nearly stumbled over his own pedes. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could think of nothing to say that would not insult the kindly shop keeper. Finally, he nodded jerkily once, then left, quickly transforming and speeding away.


	4. 04 The Night Before: Jazz

Thanks to the luverly readers who fed my addiction with their equally luverly reviews. I would send you all big thank you baskets of love, if I were able.

In this chapter, we get the hint that Prowl may have been employed in a more... _unsavory _career. Yes, I do have my own idea of what Prowl did before the war, but I'll let you guys speculate. It's more fun that way, no?

In other news... REVENGE OF THE FALLEN COMES OUT TONIGHT, REVENGE OF THE FALLEN COMES OUT TONIGHT, REVENGE OF THE FALLEN COMES OUT TOOOOONIIIIIIGHT, AAAUUGH!!! (Be quiet, all you Europeans who have had it for like, a week already.)

* * *

Instantly sober, Jazz scrambled to his pedes, hissing, "Lights on!"

The room flooded with light, revealing – as Jazz had suspected, for who else did he know that used that tone, that tone that was passive and yet scathing at the same time? – Him. Prowl. Prowl was in his room.

Though not in a position he'd ever thought he'd see the stuffy tactician in.

The SIC was sprawled on the floor at the foot of Jazz's berth, one leg pulled up to support one arm at the wrist, the other extended lazily. His sensory panels, usually held high and erect, were drooping dramatically. Faceplates were no longer set in that stern look, but in a grimace, optics shuttering rapidly at the sudden light. He held a cube of energon in one hand, and at least half a dozen empty ones lay scattered about him.

If Jazz didn't know any better, he'd say the mech was over-energized.

"Turn that light off, Jazzy. Hurts m'optics."

Yes, Prowl was most certainly over-energized.

"I will _not_ turn the lights off!" Jazz said loudly. "This is _my_ room, _my _apartment, in case ya didn't know!"

"Course I know," Prowl said matter-of-factly. "I looked you up in the system, found out where you lived." He suddenly frowned. "Unless I got it wrong. You sure this is your apartment?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" Jazz spluttered.

"Oh. Good." With much difficulty, the tactician maneuvered the cube in his hand to his lip components and took a long swig.

"You – you," Jazz fumed, unable to form a coherent sentence. "You _fragger!_"

He was absolutely livid. At Prowl, of course, but mostly at himself. How had a mech like _Prowl_ managed to get past his security system – the one he'd created and installed himself so no bot else would know the code. Not only that, it had completely escaped Jazz's notice that the mech was even there – not an arm's length in front of him! – until the tactician had actually spoken up. Where had all his training disappeared to?

"How the _slag_ did you get in here?" Jazz snarled

"Wasn't easy," Prowl said. "Took me twice as long as it should have, really." He added in a conspiratorial whisper, "I'm a little over-energized, you know."

"No kidding," Jazz muttered sullenly. "But _how_ did you do it?"

Prowl waggled a finger at Jazz, chiding, "Now, now. A master never reveals his secrets."

"Oh, so you're a master a breakin' inna people's homes now?" Jazz snarled. "You done this before?"

"Of course," Prowl scoffed. "Good thing I have so much experience, too, even if my skills are a little rusty. You've got one Pit of a security system."

Jazz tried to suppress the little spike of pride that stroke to his ego created.

"Not good enough," he growled, "if'n you were still able to get in. Speaking of which… _get out._"

Prowl, appearing as though he had not heard the saboteur, finishing off the rest of his cube of high-grade and letting it clatter to the ground to rest among the others. He rooted around the group of empty cubes, looking for a full one. Finding such, he peeled off the seal with clumsy hands and brought it to his lip components.

"You glitched or somethin'?" Jazz snarled. "I told you to get outta my apartment!"

"Not yet," Prowl muttered. "I gotta talk with you first."

With great difficulty, Prowl gathered his limbs together and pushed himself off the ground, spilling only a little of his new cube of high-grade in the act. His sensory panels only seemed to hinder the process, flopping about dramatically. Eventually, he made it to his feet, but his equilibrium chip must have been having a hard time of stabilizing him, for he swayed on the spot. Unfocused optics stared hazily at Jazz. For a moment, he said nothing. Jazz, fuse getting ever shorter, was just about to order him out of his home again when he opened his mouth.

"You put Blue on your team."

Jazz was momentarily confused.

"I put who on what team?" His momentary confusion overruled his desire to see the mech gone.

"Blue," Prowl slurred, "doesn't belong on some recon mission."

"Who the frag are you – you mean Bluestreak?" The fact that Prowl was referring to the young gunner by a nickname threw Jazz for a complete loop.

"Yes."

"The kid's good," Jazz shrugged. "I needed someone to cover us long range, and he's the best, 'cept for Mirage, an' I've already got him doin' somethin'."

"Take him off." The order was crisp and firm. For a moment, one might have forgotten Prowl was completely cratered.

"I will not," Jazz said, upper lip component curling in disgust. "An' I won't have you questioning my decisions, _especially_ in my own home! You may rank me, but I only answer to Prime."

"Prime hasn't approved your crew list yet," Prowl argued. "Take Blue off before you submit it."

The gears in Jazz's processor were slowly turning. Prowl was… just not acting Prowl-like. For one thing, over-energized was the last state he thought he'd ever see Prowl voluntarily put himself into. (And the number of consumed cubes lying at their feet made it seem very voluntary.) For another, he kept referring to Bluestreak by a nickname, as though he knew him personally, a fact that was being emphasized by his determination to convince Jazz to take him off the risky recon mission.

"What's it to you if I don't?" Jazz challenged, folding his arms across his chest. "Why shouldn't I keep 'im on?"

"He's inexperienced. He has never been on a –"

"That's slag," Jazz sneered. "He's been on at least five that are on record. Pro'lly more off."

"But never one of this magnitude," Prowl countered, waving his arms widely, slopping more of his high-grade over the cube's edge. "This one is… is _dangerous_."

"You thought I could handle it," Jazz contested with a scowl.

"That's different," Prowl scoffed. "I don't care if _you _get slagged."

Jazz's immediate offence, whilst great, did not cloud his ability to read into that comment. He cared about Bluestreak. Very greatly, it would seem, if he was so upset about the potential danger he was to be put in that he let himself slip into such a state. (Though the idea that Prowl – cool, distant, emotionless Prowl – cared about anyone at all was rather hard to grasp.)

"What's the kid to you?" Jazz repeated, genuinely curious.

He expected silence. A refusal to answer. Hesitation, at the very least. Instead, Prowl, without missing a beat, returned the inquiry with one of his own.

"Do you have any family?"

His CPU instantly zeroed in on the image of Backbeat resting out in his sitting room.

"Not anymore," Jazz murmured.

"Neither do I." Prowl looked into the cube in his hands with – was that sadness? "'Cept for Bluestreak. He's all I have."

The weight of that comment left hung heavily in Jazz's chest. Prowl, whom he had come to see as some arrogant, impassive drone, had no one. No friends. No family save the young gunner. And he clearly loved Bluestreak. Loved him as much as Jazz himself had loved and still loved Backbeat. He loved him enough that he would seek out Jazz – the very bot whose existence he sought so hard to deny – and ask him to take him out of potential harm's way, to protect him.

Such emotion and caring Jazz could understand from anybody else. It was only natural. To have it come from Prowl, though, seemed so foreign, so strange. It made him seem almost… normal. It forced Jazz to accept something.

Prowl, despite his cold mask, was a living, _feeling_ individual, just like he himself.

A regular, normal, _feeling_ bot.

And Pit if that wasn't going to make it harder to hate him.

"Aw, frag," he muttered.


End file.
